


The Space Frog

by BobosBizarreAdventures



Category: The Mandalorian (TV), ジョジョの奇妙な冒険 | JoJo no Kimyou na Bouken | JoJo's Bizarre Adventure
Genre: Crossover, Gen, Intergalactic babysitting, Wormholes are weird
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 21:21:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29088981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BobosBizarreAdventures/pseuds/BobosBizarreAdventures
Summary: A mysterious wormhole has transported Din Djarin and Grogu (the child formerly known as Baby Yoda) to Napoli. And by chance, or perhaps fate, he accidentally stumbles into a certain restaurant, where Bruno Bucciarati and his friends are just minding their own business, having some bruschetta.Jojo’s Bizarre Adventure Part 5 (Golden Wind) and The Mandalorian crossover.
Kudos: 20





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know, this is my new favorite thing. I love The Mandalorian, I love Jojo. Think this will turn into multiple chapters of Nanny Bruno/Space Frog shenanigans.

Bucciarati, Abbacchio, Mista and Narancia were gathered at Libeccio, having some bruschetta and red wine while they waited for Giorno and Fugo to join them. They were running late from a job and wouldn’t be there for another hour. It was still early in the evening, and apart from team Bucciarati, there was only one other table occupied: it was taken by three _Passione_ soldatos, being entertained by some ladies for hire.

It was a well-known fact in Napoli that the clientele frequenting Libeccio mainly consisted of various elements of the seedy underbelly of Naples, and the restaurant was regularly written about in the papers in relation to gun violence, drug busts or stabbings. And especially after the bizarre incident with the politician being crushed by a car just outside the restaurant, your average law-abiding citizen made sure to stay well clear of the place.

The restaurant would be buzzing with activity in a couple of hours, but Bucciarati preferred having early dinner, before the restaurant became too crowded. He found most of the other mafiosos quite crude and avoided them whenever possible.

The front door suddenly swung open, and the gang turned to see who it could be. Being a known watering hole for _Passione_ crew, the restaurant was constantly under attack. An enemy stand user could walk in any minute. You had to be prepared for anything.

The sun was sitting low, and the figure standing in the doorway was backlit, appearing only a as a silhouette. He was tall, caped and wearing some sort of armor. A weapon reminiscent of a spear was slung over one shoulder. And the figure was cradling something in his arms.

“It’s a stand attack!” Narancia yelled, jumping up from his seat, stretching his arms out as a makeshift landing strip for his stand. 

“Stand down, Narancia,” Bucciarati ordered. He didn’t want Aerosmith to start blasting without being absolutely sure this was an enemy stand. ( _Like, do you know how much it costs to fix a shot-up restaurant? Bucciarati knew. It was a lot.)_

The tall, armored figure stood in the doorway for a second, scoping the place before he entered, heavy boots echoing against the hardwood floors. The people sitting at the other table stared at him, which ruled out the possibility that this was a stand. A stand _user_ perhaps? Although, from experience Bucciarati knew stand users usually preferred to dress modestly, so as not to attract too much attention to themselves. Walking around in body armor wasn’t exactly _discreet_.

The stranger’s armor consisted of a breastplate, arm- and leg guards and shoulder pauldrons worn over linen clothing. A dusty, ripped cape was slung over his shoulder. He topped off his ensemble with a face-covering helmet featuring a black, T-shaped slit over the eyes. The weapon that at first had looked like a spear now looked more like a rifle, but it looked strange; it was too long and forked at the front. The stranger was _really_ shiny, light from the fixtures reflecting off of the polished metal as he walked through the room. He was big and lumbering and came off as quite threatening.

He glanced at the table with the soldatos and their companions, but seemed to discard them as uninteresting with just one look. Instead, he headed towards Bucciarati’s table. Mista’s hand instinctively went to the gun tucked into his waistband. The stranger stopped in front of the table, tilting his helmet, as some sort of salute. 

“Are you one of those sci-fi nerds?” Narancia said, cackling slightly at his own joke. “Sorry to inform you, but the convention was two months ago.”

“And how would _you_ know?” Mista quipped, grinning. 

“I uh… Giorno told me…” Narancia sputtered. “He’s a huge dork.”

“Uh-huh,” Mista said.

“He is!” Narancia was quickly losing interest in the stranger, instead turning to Mista, lavender eyes starting to turn black, hand already reaching for his switchblade.

“Will you two calm down!” Bucciarati ordered, and Narancia immediately put his knife away and Mista mumbled some half-assed apology.

The stranger tilted his helmet towards Bucciarati, and Bucciarati tried peering through T-slit, but it was completely impossible to see through the blackness of it. _How was he able to look out?_

“Are you the proprietor of this establishment?” The stranger's voice was filtered through some sort of device in his helmet, making it sound like he was talking out of a walkie-talkie.

“You could perhaps say that I represent the proprietor,” Bucciarati said. Libeccio was Passione-run and when there were no capos around, Bucciarati called the shots.

“Hm.” The strangers hum was a deep, robotic barytone. “You will have to do then.”

Abbacchio, who had been sitting back in his chair, legs spread wide, arms folded across chest, a pose best described as text-book manspreading, now leaned forward, pointing to the bundle in the strangers arms. It seemed to be moving. Abbacchio’s painted lips curved into a snarl, and very eloquently, he summarized everyone’s current mood:

“Who the hell are you, and what the hell is _that_?”

As if its ears were burning, whatever the stranger was cradling in his arms stirred. It sounded like the bundle gurgled, and then suddenly, a pair of big, green ears popped out of the folds of brown cloth. The ears were followed by a green head with impossibly big eyes. The thing looked around the room, tiny mouth opening in delight as it cooed. It stretched its tiny, green hands towards Bucciarati.

“Whoa!” Narancia took a step back. “What _is_ that?”

“Is it some puppet?” Mista leaned in to peer at the thing. “It’s kinda cute.”

“Is it like a furby?” Narancia said, trying to poke it. “Where can I get one?”

The stranger half-turned away, like he wanted to protect the green being from Narancia’s grabby hands.

“Me and the kid were on our way back to Nevarro when we got sucked into a wormhole,” the stranger said with his deep, synthesized voice. “We got transported here through the wormhole, and we crashed into that inactive volcano just outside town."

The gang stared at the stranger. He cleared his throat, maybe his vocoder was malfunctioning, and they couldn't hear him clearly?

"I need someone to help me repair the ship," he said.

Mista’s eyebrows knitted together in confusion, _was this guy for real?_ But then he burst out in a boisterous laugh: “Dude! You're hilarious! Did Risotto and his crew put you up to this? Well, tell him we’re not falling for it. But I gotta say, I appreciate the creativity. Props and all!”

The stranger looked at him, tilting his helmet. Modulated voice slow, hesitant: “I… do not understand?”

Mista raised one eyebrow: “What? It’s not a prank?”

The stranger sighed, the mechanical voice as close to exasperation a mechanical voice could get: “Why would I joke about something like this?”

“I think _we’re_ the ones who don’t understand,” Bucciarati said. “You’re saying you came to Napoli in some sort of aircraft? And it crashed into the Vesuvius crater?”

“A _spaceship_ ,” the stranger corrected. “But yes, it crashed into the volcano. We have been walking since this morning to get here.”

The little green bundle held on to the stranger’s leather-gloved hand with his tiny fingers as it curiously looked at the grown-ups talking, like it was following the conversation. Occasionally it cooed, or giggled lightly, ears bobbing up and down as it did.

“I’m sorry,” Bucciarati said, feeling sorry for this person. Obviously, his mind was gone, most likely from an addiction to drugs. Bucciarati clenched his fists: _those damn drugs…_ The green thing cooed again and Bucciarati looked at it. It had to be some sort of puppet, right?

“Do you know of a mechanic?” the stranger asked.

Mista chuckled. “That knows how to repair spaceships? Nope, sorry.”

The stranger sighed. “I need someone to look after the child while I look for a mechanic.”

“The child?” Bucciarati asked. “Do you mean the… green thing?”

“It’s a child. And he seems to have taken a liking to you,” the stranger nodded slightly towards Bucciarati. He untangled the green child from his fingers and placed him on the table.

The child took a couple of wobbly steps around on the table. He reached his hands out to the armor-clad stranger and cooed nervously.

“NO WAY!” both Mista and Narancia exclaimed.

“It’s real?!” Bucciarati carefully stroked one of the ears. The child quickly whipped around, gasping, but when he saw it was only Bucciarati, he giggled, delighted.

“I won’t be long,” the stranger assured the child, mechanical voice somehow soft and soothing now. He tilted his helmet to look at Bucciarati again: “I will try to be back here the same time tomorrow.” 

The stranger turned as if to leave.

“WAIT!” Bucciarati called. “You can’t just leave this thi… This _child_ here. We know nothing about taking care of children. We’re _gangsters_. I mean…what does he even eat?”

The stranger stopped. “He’s easy. Just… don’t turn your back to him. He can be pretty quick.” He opened up a small leather pouch and emptied its contents over the table. A heap of rectangular, metal pieces and some blueish, round things:

“This will cover you for your troubles,” he said, already leaving. “And just feed him something with bones in it.”

Team Bucciarati were left staring after the shiny stranger as he disappeared through the door. Then they turned to stare at the child. Such an odd-looking thing: green, big ears and enormous, bright eyes that took up half his face. Almost drowning in that oversized robe he was wearing. He was kind of cute - you know, for a space frog. He stared back at them and cooed. Abbacchio poked the child’s head with one finger, quickly withdrawing his hand as he realized that the child was warm to the touch, and very much real.

“What are we supposed to do with these?” Mista picked up one of the round things from the table, biting it like he was testing the purity of gold. He dropped it with a disgusted yelp. “Eww! It’s soft!”

The child stretched his tiny hands out, cooing like he was in distress. Bucciarati sighed and reluctantly picked him up. The child relaxed, smiling at his new nanny.

“I’ve seen a lot of weird shit since I met you, Bucciarati,” Abbacchio said, looking at his boss holding the tiny, green space frog in his arms. “But this has got to be the weirdest!”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baby Grogu's bizarre adventure continues! 
> 
> This is basically unedited, banged this out in a few hours, just writing literally the first thing that came to mind. Just having some stupid fun with Baby Yoda and Team Bucciarati =)
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

Fugo and Giorno arrived at Libeccio almost an hour later, Fugo covered in mud all the way from his feet up to his shoulders. He was missing his shoes, walking on wet socks that sloshed disgustingly with every step.

“Sorry we’re late,” Giorno said, shoulders shaking from trying to hold in a laugh.

“What happened?” Narancia looked down at Fugo’s shoeless feet. “Awww, Fugo. Not your expensive leather shoes!”

“I don’t want to talk about it. It was _vile,_ ” Fugo said, making a face, and Giorno allowed himself a chuckle at the image of Fugo stuck up to his neck in the middle of a murky pond, arms helplessly flailing.

Fugo went to the back to get out of his disgusting clothes, and Giorno was about to tell the others every amusing detail about Fugo’s accident, when his eyes landed on the _thing_ sitting on the table.

“What is that?” Giorno’s eyes grew almost as big as the child’s.

The child was sitting on the table, in front of a plate of pasta pomodoro, but when he saw Giorno, he wobbled to the edge of the table, reaching his little arms out towards the blond.

“Bucciarati,” Giorno said, his eyes glistening. He had a weak spot for frogs. “What _is_ this thing?”

“It’s a long story.” But then Bucciarati remembered that it actually wasn’t. “Well, it’s a _weird_ story.”

Giorno picked up the child, petting him behind one giant ear, making him giggle. The child reached out to grab one of Giorno’s ladybugs, immediately trying to stuff it into his mouth.

“Hey, little one,” Giorno said, gently removing the brooch from him. “That’s not for eating.”

But the child wasn’t about to let that stop him, and he reached for the one on the other side of Giorno’s chest instead.

“We don’t really know what it is,” Mista said, making a face at the child: it had stuffed the ladybug entirely into its mouth now, drooling around it. “Hey, hey, Giorno, you better make sure that thing doesn’t choke.”

 _Oh crap!_ Whatever this thing was, Giorno would hate himself if it choked itself to death on account of him.

“Give me that,” Giorno scolded the child, trying to sound stern. “I told you, it’s not for eating.”

The child cooed gleefully, one cheek puffed up with the ladybug inside. Giorno frowned. Ok, so maybe talking to it wouldn’t work. Giorno tried prying his fingers into its mouth, but the thing bit him.

“ _Ouch!”_ Giorno snapped his hand back. The child just giggled, or rather gargled, drool sputtering out one corner of his mouth.

“Turn it upside down,” Mista suggested. “I think you’re supposed to do that when babies choke on stuff.”

Giorno hesitated. “You sure?” _Was this thing even a baby?_

“Yeah, of course!” Mista said, and as usual, he had nothing more than a confident grin to back up his claim.

“But it’s not choking,” Giorno protested.

Mista waved his hand around impassively: “Alright, so wait ‘til it starts choking then.”

Giorno looked at Bucciarati who nervously brushed his hand through his bangs; Bucciarati knew how to handle soldatos, not babies (even though, sometimes, those two things seemed oddly close).

“Here, give me that!”

Abbacchio stood up and he grabbed the child from Giorno, snarling at him. He flipped the child upside-down, tapping it repeatedly, not too gently, on the back, until the child spat out the ladybug. The brooch landed with a wet thud on the table, covered in drool. Abbacchio raised a condescending eyebrow at Giorno – _see how easy that was, you fucking newbie –_ before shoving the child back into Giorno’s arms, and sitting back down.

Giorno looked at the child and sighed and exasperated sigh. “Good thing you’re adorable,” he said. “Whatever you are.”

“It’s a space frog,” Narancia said sagely, like he was suddenly some kind of expert on these matters.

Fugo arrived from the back, he had stripped out of his muddy clothes, and was wearing two aprons he had found in the kitchen, one on the front, one on the back, and to be honest, it wasn’t too much of a change from his usual outfits. He caught the tail end of the conversation.

“Narancia,” Fugo said, trying his best to be patient. “There’s no such thing as a _space frog_.”

Narancia scowled, crossing his arms across his chest: “Really? Then what is _that_?”

Fugo saw the thing in Giorno’s arms and his eyes widened. The child had started to fidget and Giorno put him back down on the table. It scampered back to his bowl of pasta.

“It looks like some kind of amphibian,” Fugo said, peering down at the child, but uncertainty had crept into his voice. “But why is it wearing a robe?”

“Hey, Bucciarati, tell him!” Narancia complained. He leaned across the table, angrily poking a finger into the table: “Tell Fugo it’s a space frog. Tell him about...”

But he was cut off by something hard hitting the back of his head, sending him tumbling over the table.

“Watch it!” Abbacchio snarled. Narancia had almost tipped over his glass of wine.

“Hey! What the hell was that for!” Narancia rubbed his neck where Fugo had smacked him with a stack of menus.

“Shut up already, you idiot!” Fugo grabbed Narancia by the shirt, his face only centimeters from Narancia’s: “There is no such thing as a space frog!”

“Let go of me!” Narancia bit down on Fugo’s hand, but Fugo refused to, making Narancia start kicking at him instead. “Let! Go!”

“Stop your fighting!” Bucciarati raised his voice. “You’re scaring the child!”

Fugo let go of Narancia immediately at the command of their capo.

“Sorry, Bucciarati,” Narancia mumbled.

Fugo bowed slightly: “I apologize, Bucciarati.”

“Hey, guys,” Mista said, looking around, adjusting his hat. “Where’s the frog?”

On the table: the plate of barely touched pasta pomodoro, Giorno’s ladybug brooch covered in drool. No space frog.

They looked for it under the table, behind the chairs. Inside Mista’s hat. Nothing. Bucciarati’s eyes widened. The armored stranger had warned them, _he’s quick._ Goddamnit! They had lost the child!

*****

Baby Grogu didn’t have much trouble at all climbing down the table, onto a chair and then gliding down the leg of the chair to reach the floor. He was used to scampering around the Razor Crest, playing hide-and-seek, which was especially funny when Mando wasn’t aware of the fact that they were playing it.

The pasta pomodoro that the man with the black hair had ordered for Grogu had been very disappointing; he had spotted waiters carrying plates of delicious-looking meat from the kitchen, and Grogu figured no one would mind if he helped himself to some.

Grogu hurried after the waiter, through a revolving door and found himself in the kitchen. He looked up, wide-eyed at all the pots and pans filled with things smelling absolutely mouthwatering. _Alright, how to get up there?_ Grogu looked around, maybe it could climb up the drawers, and then...

“ _Jesus! What is that thing!”_

Grogu gasped and spun around. One of the chefs was staring at him, a meat cleaver in hand. Grogu gasped again, his eyes widening. He looked around, quickly trying to find an escape and his eyes landed on a back door! Someone had propped it up with a crate, and the opening was just enough for him to slip through.

“The boss will kill me if this place gets shut down due to some health code violation,” the chef muttered, looming over Grogu, raising his knife.

Baby Grogu, sensing that his life was in danger, closed his eyes, stretching out his little arm in front of him, summoning that power that resided within. _Choke, choke, choke,_ he thought, summoning all his might. He had his eyes closed, but he could hear the chef gasping for air, the knife clattering, followed by a loud thud as the chef passed out and fell to the floor.

Grogu opened his eyes, falling back on his little ass, suddenly feeling exhausted. _No! Don’t pass out!_ He stood up and shook his head; he didn’t have time to rest now, he needed to get out of here, before the chef woke up and came at him again with that knife.

 _Right, the back door!_ Grogu hurried on his tiny, green feet to the door, pressing himself through the propped up door. A waiter was standing outside smoking, but was too busy scrolling on his phone to notice the little, green child scurrying past.

Grogu blinked in the sunlight. Alright. Now to find Mando!


End file.
